


Three Years Later

by johnlockedfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Not Good, AU, Angst, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Depressed John, Fading Away, Feels, Ghostly/Angelic, Guardian - Freeform, Hallucinations, John goes insane, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock-y feels, Leaving, M/M, No Mary, Pining John Watson, Reichenbach Feels, Sad!Sherlock, Sorry Not Sorry, angst all around, especially the ending, language warning, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7641328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockedfangirl/pseuds/johnlockedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the fall, John still struggles to cope with Sherlock's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aching

**Author's Note:**

> My first work on the archive! More chapters coming soon. Feedback always appreciated. ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: As much as I'd love to, I don't own any of the characters herein.

John Watson opened the door of 221B, sadly creaking it shut as he entered the flat. Leaning heavily on his cane, he looked around with a tired expression in his empty eyes, which were little more than broken windows opening onto a shadowed shell of a soul.  
The flat was the same as always, but now it seemed too large, too empty. The skull smiled gruesomely as usual from its perch on the mantelpiece. He'd moved nothing, and its grin seemed softer under three years of dust. The same eloquent dust was still there, and so were the memories. Both hung in the air, floating lazily through the light, and through the ghost as well, because Sherlock hadn't really left him.  
He had fallen, dead at John's feet, then the consulting detective had simply stood up and walked away. Well, not really, for his body had lain in bloodied glory upon the sidewalk of St. Bart's, but his ghost had followed John, had come to the funeral, and had stood under the trees in the shadow of its own grave as John delivered his sombre soliloquy, hoping for a miracle beyond all possibility.  
He never said anything, the ghost, though John never talked much anymore either. The ghost never moved; it merely sat in the chair in its coat and scarf, with its white transparent fingers steepled knowingly under its chin. It did not look at John, and only gazed off to one side with a sorrowful expression, concentrating on nothing in particular, doomed to forever haunt the halls of its eternal Mind Palace.  
It sickened John, for the ghost's very presence somehow mocked the life of his former flatmate. In the beginning, John had told the ghost to sod off, that he didn't need that kind of strife, but after a while, he got used to it, hoping that perhaps it had come to fetch him, and they might see one another again, in a better place. He'd heard of that, people seeing their deceased loved ones before they died. But that did not seem to be true, at least not in his case.

John tried to moved on, as much as he could, but it was hard, oh, it was hard. He was a broken man, with hurts that would not heal and scars that never faded. Mrs. Hudson found him one day, weeping silently and clutching Sherlock's old blue scarf like a lifeline, gazing at his empty chair, staring down the demon that he alone could see, trapped in the waking nightmares he called reality.  
His dreamworld was worse, for his nightmares returned along with his limp, which seemed to worsen with a vengeance as if to make up for the time he'd gone without it. His old shoulder wound often throbbed, at odd times in the night. He sometimes woke up screaming in a cold sweat with hot tears on his cheeks and an unendurable ache in his heart, all under the watchful gaze of the ghost.  
John sighed, hanging up his coat and puttering around like a man twice his age, dragging his leg and cursing the useless appendage. He slowly made tea, half-heartedly wondering why he bothered. He put the untouched cup down with his shaking hand, almost upsetting the porcelain container, but not caring.

He held his left hand aloft, surveying his fingers with morbid interest. They twitched without authority, and he curled them into a mutinous fist that spasmed as he held his hand against his jumper-clad chest. He could feel his sputtering heart through the worn and faded oatmeal-coloured fabric.

 _Why?_ \- _Why?_ \- _Why?_

Its rhythm pounded, day in and day out.

 _Why?_ \- _Why?_ \- _Why?_

He was surprised that it still worked, was still beating though it seemed to him there was nothing left to live for.

 _Why?_ \- _Why?_ \- _Why?_

If only he'd been quicker, if only he'd intervened, had ignored Sherlock and went up to the roof, he might still be alive.

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

But he couldn't have ignored something like that, a plea for help, a friend's final request. Friends. He knew now why Sherlock had opted for sociopathy, because goodbyes _hurt._

A tear rolled down his cheek, unbidden.

_"Goodbye, John."_

He hadn't said it back.

He'd never know if he'd actually ended that phone call, or if it had timed out or was just running and running, on and on, racking up the minutes by the millions because John didn't want to say goodbye.

_"No, Don't..."_

And oh, it hurt.

He sucked in a breath and held it, forcing back a sob with all the dignity of his military training. Thus composed, he turned to face the ghost, a pale, forbidden outline against the cold shadow of the wall. The yellow, bullet-ridden face smiled down at John through the misted ectoplasm with all the airs of the grim reaper.

Suddenly he just couldn't bear it anymore. The silence was too heavy, oppressing, pushing on his heart, threatening to completely overwhelm the life he'd already given up on. He shouted in frustration, and pain, and utter regret, swiping the teacup off the counter with a howl and holding his head in his hands. He had no words, only a wail of grief and anger.The tea dripped down the wall just as freely as the tears fell down his face.

He looked up. The ghost had vanished, as though it had never been there. Breathing heavily, he looked around at the joyless mess his life had become.

If only...

But 'if only' wasn't going to help. 'If only' was an impossible dream.

He closed his eyes, and against any will of his own, began to wish. His heart's desire, his only want- his only need- was to see his best friend walk through that door, alive and well. That was never going to happen. The soldier in him scolded himself for such outrageous thinking, but his gentler, doctor side intervened, saying he'd already suffered enough.

'Look at me.' John thought. 'Pathetic, that's what I am. Holding a three-way argument with myself over hopeless wishes.'  
But he opened his eyes, and his wish had come true.

The ghost had gone, and a figure stood in its place, or it had reappeared in a more solid form, because John could no longer see the wallpaper through the spectre.

John stared at it, with a frown upon his face and sullen anger in his eyes.  


"Go away." He said in a flat tone. "I don't want you here. You left me, now stay away!" The figure only blinked in response. John's voice rose, breaking with the strain, for he hadn't used it in weeks. "I said _go away!_ "

Sherlock's apparition bowed its head sadly, and slowly faded away. John choked back a cry as he watched it disappear. For a moment, he had hoped-

_"No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie."_

He could not stop the rush of memories or the flood of tears that streamed down his cheeks.

_"Just one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.”_

For me. Please, he thought, just for me. Please.

_“Don't be…”_

He could hardly think the word, terrible and true as it was. Thinking it, acknowledging the fact only made it worse. But it was the truth. He had to face the facts, as cold and as indifferent as they were. Sherlock was gone. He was never coming back. He was...

_“Dead."_  


His voice had cracked on the word, he remembered, just as his heart was cracking now. The pain was fresh in his heart, just as though his soul had been ripped out anew.


	2. Agony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Open the door._  
>  SH 

John's mobile buzzed, for the first time in months. He jumped, startled, wiping futilely at his wet face and picking it up. 

He stared at the scratched screen, unable to comprehend what he saw for several minutes. If this was some sort of cruel joke, John wasn't laughing. He hadn't laughed in over three years, and he wasn't about to start now, unless it was hysterically shrieking in agony, because he had finally gone insane. There was no other possible explanation. 

_"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be-”_

No. He pushed the thought away before his ghost could finish speaking, reading and rereading the three worded text before him, unable to believe. 

_**Open the door.  
SH**_

He looked up slowly, staring at the door, holding his breath, his broken heart thumping wildly with forbidden hope. There was a tentative tapping upon the wood and fading paint, as though the caller were hesitating. 

"Come - ” Emotion had sealed his throat shut. He coughed, shuddered, and tried again. “Come in." His voice was not his own. The scuffed handle turned slowly, the door swung inward, and a familiar shadow was silhouetted in the doorframe. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice rang out softly, a low voice John had never expected to hear again. It broke the wall of numbness he had so carefully constructed, the memories flooded out, and all the fear and sadness and pain of the last three years came crashing down on his shoulders. 

The word - his name - echoed in his mind, a reprieve. 

_John?_

The weight of his grief and relief was too heavy; his vision blurred, his leg spiked with psychosomatic pain and buckled, and he fell to his knees, doubling over and clutching his aching heart as a cry escaped his lips. 

There was a flurry of motion, and suddenly Sherlock was there, kneeling beside him, tangible, real. Alive. John could feel his soft whispers of breath ghosting along his damp cheeks as his friend's long pale fingers gently peeled back his shaking hands, searching for a wound. 

"John? What is it?" John looked up into the detective's face, physically unable to draw breath for several moments. It was as if the ghost had returned, crushing his windpipe with an invisible fist. 

Sherlock. Sherlock. _Sherlock._

"You're alive." He stuttered faintly. He couldn't find any other words. "You're... alive." Sherlock nodded, saying in his deep voice, the voice John had missed so much, the voice he’d dreamed, ached, bled of. "John..." He began. "I am so sorry- " 

John cut him off, struggling to get the words from his dry throat. "You're alive!" He growled. Sudden anger filled his eyes, and his hand was trembling so much he couldn't properly form a fist, but he struck out anyway. 

Sherlock stumbled back from the blow, muttering, "I did deserve that, I suppose, but-" 

But John wasn't finished yet, not even close. He lunged and tackled Sherlock to the dusty floor, landing blows on his head, chest, back, anywhere he could reach, striking out blindly through his tears. A stream of curses and all the pain of the last three years, punctuated throughout with Sherlock's name, came hissing through his clenched teeth. 

Sherlock suffered in silence; he seemed to take the beating gladly. Whatever he was feeling was only a fraction of the suffering that he had forced upon John. 

John's assault eventually ceased, his blows becoming weaker and weaker before he fell back, weeping into his hands. 

The doctor heard Sherlock suppressed a groan as he sat up- he'd definitely be black and blue in the morning. 

John's chest heaved with his sobs, ragged, gasping whimpers escaping his throat as hot tears puddled in his palms and streamed down his wrists. He felt warmth on his shoulder, and John parted his fingers and peeped out miserably to find Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, staring at him with eyes wet and pleading for forgiveness. 

Sherlock wiped the trickle of blood from his split lip with a bit of his sleeve as he tried again, "John-" 

John shook his head and pulled away from Sherlock's grasp. "Sherlock, I can't... I can't believe it..." He gasped out, staring with wide eyes at the detective. 

Sherlock looked back at him, and said, "I'm so sorry, John. I never meant to stay away for so long." For the first time, he looked like he truly meant it. 

John could not bring himself to meet that omniscient gaze, and looked down as he said quietly, "Three years, Sherlock. Three. Bloody. Years. Do you have any idea of what that has done to me?" John's voice was cracking and hoarse, almost like it came from a dead throat. 

He sighed. "John, I know it was a long time, and I never meant for you to suffer so much, but I had to keep away. It was for your own sake. Moriarty's snipers would've killed you if I hadn't jumped." 

John was silent for a moment, then asked quietly, "You jumped... For me?" 

Sherlock bowed his head in the affirmative. "Yes. And I'm sorry." With one hand, John could count the number of times he'd heard him say those words, and three of them had been in the last five minutes. Sherlock was about to run out of fingers. "Three years is a very long time. It was too long for both of us. I was foolish. I should have sent you word as soon as I was able to, but… " 

His baritone voice trailed off, and John inquired, "But what?" 

Sherlock seemed to think about his answer for a long moment before replying, "I was… otherwise engaged." 

It was John's turn to pause then, in incredulous fury, and he said, "You mean you were busy? For three years, you just couldn't be bothered to find the time to drop by and say _oh, by the way, I'm not dead?_ " 

Sherlock's eyes were then filled with a mix of emotions John didn't recall ever seeing there before. Sorrow? Empathy? Did Sherlock even feel empathy? 

No, it was pain. Pain and regret. 

Immediately, John felt bad for lashing out. "I'm sorry." He said, but Sherlock shook his head and smiled faintly, a genuine smile such as John hadn't seen in a long while. 

"No, John. If anyone has reason to be sorry, it's me. I should have told you, but I... I was... scared." 

"Scared?" John asked, echoing Sherlock's whisper. "What have you got to be scared of?" 

Sherlock looked at him then, as his grin faded, and John noticed that his eyes, clear and sea-blue, looked remarkably like those of a frightened child. "Do you really not know?" 

John shook his head. 

Sherlock drew in a breath and spoke slowly. "I was afraid that you wouldn't forgive me." 

John let out a short laugh, a dry burst of a chuckle that held no mirth but only conveyed his surprise. "Of- of course I forgive you, Sherlock. Why wouldn't I? I mean, it's going to take some time- frankly, I'm still in shock- but I'll get there eventually." 

Sherlock's relief seemed immense. "Thank you, John. I - " 

But the reality of the situation had finally caught up to the army doctor. The world suddenly swam before his eyes in a hazy grey mist, and there was an indistinct pounding in his ears. His eyes rolled back into his head as he tumbled headfirst toward the floor. John felt himself fall distantly, a mist and a warmth all around him. Sherlock’s voice came to him as though in a dream, tinged with panic, and then John let the shock and darkness overtake him. 


	3. Anodyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Anodyne (adj):**   
>  _Something that relieves pain or suffering. In old slang, often used as a euphemism for death._

When John came to, he wasn't sure if he really had. He was lying pronate on the couch, which was odd. He didn't recall dozing off, but then again he couldn't remember much of the last few minutes. He slowly raised his head and looked around, trying to see if that might jog his memory. The flat was the same as usual, quiet, calm. His cane was just where he had left it, the skull was still on the mantelpiece, and Sherlock was looking at him, his hands clasped under his chin as he sat, deep in thought.

Wait a moment. Sherlock.

_Sherlock?_

Then everything came rushing back to him in a flood of emotion. Sherlock was back, returned from the dead, and he, John, had fainted. Sherlock looked over as he sat up. "I'm glad to see you're finally awake." He remarked, the whisper of a grin on his face. "Though you were only out for about ten minutes." He reached over and handed his blogger a steaming cup of tea, freshly steeped. John took it, grateful for the warm liquid heating the china cupped between his hands, but he didn't drink it. He had learned his lesson on the moors of Baskerville. Evidently Sherlock remembered that case as well, and he chuckled softly at his flatmate's hesitation. "Don't worry, it's not drugged, I promise. Mrs. Hudson made it, actually." 

Relieved that the tea was drinkable, John took a sip, then asked the first question that came to his mind, "How-" 

Sherlock cut him off, having deduced what he would ask. "How did I survive? It's quite a long story, and I'll be glad to tell it as soon as you are sufficiently recovered." 

John said, "I'm fine, Sherlock." 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that? You did just faint, John. However, considering the circumstances that was an appropriate reaction. Your response was more normal than some I received." 

John asked, "Really?" 

Sherlock nodded. "It was actually quite amusing, seeing their reactions after I broke into Scotland Yard-" 

John nearly choked."You broke into Scotland Yard?" 

"Yes. Pay attention. I needed information, and it couldn't wait until morning. Besides, it wasn't hard. For a police station their security system is surprisingly simple." 

"What about the security guards? The cameras?" 

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly."Oh, I just walked past them. The guard on duty hardly paid any attention to me. He was too busy trying to figure out if I was a ghost, I believe. Anyways, I got the files I needed and was leaving, when Lestrade came in. He'd just gotten out of bed. He kept asking me if it was a dream, even after I explained. He took it really well, however. Well, after he punched me. Sergeant Donovan shrieked and threw her phone at me, as well as a couple of case files and a few pieces of evidence. Anderson fell down three flights of stairs and nearly cracked his skull. Pity that he didn't. It might have raised his IQ." Sherlock smiled wanly at the utterance. "Looked like he'd seen a - well. It appears I'm rambling."

John could have listened to him talk for hours. But the curiosity was too much. He began to ask again, "But how-" Sherlock held up a hand, and his blogger instantly shut his mouth.

The detective continued. "Once I was on that rooftop I knew I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to you. Not really. Not in the way I wanted to. And of course, Moriarty’s spies were watching. Watching and waiting for me to make a move. So I had to jump, in order to save you. Hence my note.”

John fell silent, absorbing the information. As Sherlock didn’t continue immediately, John reasoned he was being given time to think, to process things. Truth be told he couldn’t remember when he’d felt so exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally. Every day of the last three years had been a strain, a hardship, a battle he knew he was losing. He’d thought he’d cracked, truthfully, in the beginning. When he’d started seeing Sherlock, he’d thought it was the end. Here he was, starting the slow descent to madness. And after three years, he’d hit rock bottom. 

And yet. 

And yet, here Sherlock was, right in front of him! It was enough to make John weep bitterly, and he did. The sobs started out slowly, just a shaking of the shoulders, but escalated and soon he wasn’t even trying to hide his tears. 

Sherlock watched all of it stonily, bent forward in his chair in his familiar - oh, so familiar, so missed - thinking position. But he wasn’t thinking, John could tell. Through the veil of his tears John could see the distress in Sherlock’s face. He wiped his face with a shuddering hiccough. “Sorry… It’s just, I can’t believe that you’re actually here. Again. Alive. With me.”

His tone of voice seemed to pain Sherlock, which confused John. Sherlock never showed pain. He was never distraught, for that matter. 

But what did it matter! Sherlock was right in front of him and John didn’t care what he looked like. Another shuddering sob escaped him, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself. “Sorry. I know how much you hate emotion.” He attempted a wry, watery smile. God, it felt good to joke again, as terrible as it was. 

But from the grimace that graced Sherlock’s face, it had come across as a bit Not Good. The detective stood up, clasping his hands behind the back of his blazer. 

John hadn’t even seen him shed his coat and scarf. No matter. 

“No,” Sherlock murmured. “No, I should be apologising to you.” 

“Damn right you should be.” John said, the ghost of cheeriness echoing in his tone. Sherlock turned to look at him, in such a way that John felt his heart skip. There was so much depth in those eyes, those beautiful, haunting eyes. Emotion, the likes of which John had never seen before. Not there. Was that affection, perhaps? Perhaps, but John had never really glimpsed what it looked like in Sherlock’s eyes before. It couldn’t be, not with all the pain and sorrow that overshadowed it. The jewelled eyes grew darker, and his cupid’s-bow mouth was a stiff line. 

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“This. This is wrong. I shouldn’t have come here. You’re not supposed to know. I thought, just maybe, you’d benefit if I came here like this, but… I can’t let you suffer any longer.” Sherlock’s voice sounded hoarse, a quiet utterance that John knew was the absolute truth, though he didn’t understand it.

“My suffering’s over, Sherlock. You’re here.” Sherlock towered over him, and the blonde reached out from his seat to grasp affectionately at the detective’s wrist. Sherlock only took a step back.

John stood up, confused.

Sherlock’s steady gaze bore into him. “You really shouldn’t do that, John.”

“And why not?”

“Your suffering. It’s not over.”

John paused a moment. He didn’t like the tightness of Sherlock’s grimace.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re on about but now is really not the time to be - “

Two things happened at once.  
John reached for Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock’s breath hitched. Inconsequential, meaningless, stupid, mundane actions. The hitch in his breath was a warning; the brunet’s eyes slid closed soundlessly. But John’s action, irrevocably foolish, was a tool of derision, decisive decimation.  
Because, instead of alighting firmly on Sherlock’s thin shoulder, John’s tan, calloused fingers passed clean through the detective, as though he were no more than a beam of light, and John’s hand a mote of dust. 

“ _\- dramatic._ ” His face was pale, his breath a bloodless whisper. The word died on his lips, his heart stopped in his chest. His hand, now trembling, wavered between life and death, caught up still - not on, but _in_ \- Sherlock’s shoulder, hovering just beneath the surface, beneath a veil, beneath a sheen of shadowy moonlight, beneath a curtain of candle-smoke. 

“I did tell you not to do that.”

Sherlock’s baritone rumbled through him, seeming to pierce him from all angles, to barb him to the soul. 

John was frozen. This was a moment so paramount, John could not breathe. He felt Sherlock’s essence slide across his fingers and yet he still did not believe.

“Sherlock.” His vision flickered in and out of blackness momentarily. It was a plea, a cry, a gasping grasp at any hope he had left. “How did you survive?”

The whisper came from nothing, out of memory and pain and a terrible, terrible realisation; John already knew what it was. The answer, finally. Sherlock’s smile had never seemed so bitter. His gaze had never pierced John quite so deep.

“I didn’t.”

_Silence._

“I - … No - … “ Puffs of breath, wisps of nothing escaping his vocal chords.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“No! You’re - No. No, you can’t be. You _can’t be!_ ” John’s voice did not escape his throat, it was his very soul which cracked and bled from his mouth. 

Sherlock Holmes was dead. John had known it all along. It had been too much to hope for, his triumphant return. 

All along, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, Molly, hell, even Mycroft himself had been telling him to move on, to give up the ghost.

But Sherlock was the one ghost he didn’t want to live without. 

Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“But… I hit you before. How come I could hit you?” He already knew the answer.

“Because I let you.”

John let his hand drop. He felt utterly - No. There were no words for this kind of emptiness.

There was sudden pressure on his cheek, the memory of warmth. Sherlock’s translucent hand, wiping away his tears.

“Don’t touch me, you fucking bastard. I don’t want you to touch me if I can’t touch you back.” His voice was miserable, small and weak. 

Sherlock, sweet, stubborn, _Sherlock_ , did not listen. He brushed a hand through John’s short hair - was that really even him? Or a trick of the wind from the open window?

“Don’t. Please… ” 

Sherlock put a light - terribly, _terribly_ light - finger to his lips. 

John could see right through him. He was just trying to make this work. But alone didn’t protect John. This was not how he got to say goodbye - barging in, so full of life, and exiting half an hour later. 

But John could see right _through him._ Sherlock was a shaft of dark light in the flat, colours muted, seen through his transparent figure. “Don’t do this.” John said. _"Please."_ He begged. “I don’t want you to go.” 

The doctor tried to tug on Sherlock’s sleeve, to grasp, to take hold of any part of him, but it was like catching the light of stained-glass windows in his hands. Impossible. “Why the ruse?” He burst out, breath hitching. “Why give me that kind of hope if you were going to tear it away all along?” He was too upset to let the anger show. "I _died_ that day, three years ago. Why hurt me even more?" 

“I wanted to give you something to hold on to, before I went.” 

The last two words caught at John’s mind, tore at his soul. “What …?” 

“I’ve come to leave you properly, John. I can’t keep haunting you like this.” It had been Sherlock, all along. All his visions, all his nightmares. John had thought himself insane, and every therapist had eventually left. His case was a bad one; it had been Sherlock all along. 

John felt, rather than heard, his voice. So low it broke his heart. So near he almost felt Sherlock’s breath. Almost. “Enough, my love, is enough.”

Sherlock’s hands had fallen and now rested on John’s forearms. His light fingers, his fingers made of light, appropriately ghosted along the skin there. John could almost feel the touch, like it was real.  
He shook his head fervently.  
Tears broke his vision and cracked his voice. “Sherlock, please - “  
Sherlock shook his head; he leaned in. His lips met John’s. 

For the first time. 

For the first, the last, the only.

“Goodbye, John.” 

Another gasp, another sob, three years too late. 

“No, _don’t -_ “ 

John reached out. 

Sherlock was gone. 


End file.
